The Roses by Mary Oliver



All afternoon I have been walking over the dunes,

hurrying from one thick raft of the wrinkled, salt

roses to another, leaning down close to their dark

or pale petals, red as blood or white as snow.

And now I am beginning to breathe slowly and evenly-

the way a hunted animal breathes, finally, when it has galloped,

and galloped-when it is wrung dry, but, at last, is far away,

so the panic begins to drain from the chest, from the wonderful legs,

and the exhausted mind.



Oh sweetness pure and simple, may I join you?



I lie down next to them, on the sand.

But to tell about what happens next, truly I need help.



Will somebody or something please start to sing?